Foster was taken to a sleek black transport van waiting at the Super Ward’s patient loading bay. The driver, a bored orderly in a crisp white jumpsuit, barely grunted as Foster climbed in after being pushed there in a wheelchair. He was still wearing the silvery gown under a scavenged hoodie from lost-and-found - his blood covered uniform having been taken away by the PRU during his intake but at least they had returned his wallet.

  The van hummed through the Inner City, its electric purr blending with the hum of holo-billboards and the soft glow of glass spires piercing the sky. Zone A was a dreamscape—clean streets and crisp air as hover cars weaved over and under one another and Supers zipped overhead, capes fluttering. Foster pressed his face to the tinted window, watching the gleam fade as the van hit the Zone’s edge.

  The hospital’s courtesy ended at Zone B’s border—middle-tier, where the zone’s all encompassing Aether shielding started to fade and the sky’s prior shine dulled down to a utilitarian gray. The driver kicked him out with a muttered, “You’re on your own from here, kid,” and peeled off. Foster flagged a cab, a dented yellow relic with a meter that ticked like a heartbeat. Zone B was suburbs, office blocks, and chain diners, and as they reached the edge of the next zone it was still tidy but tired—cracked sidewalks starting to replace the prior perfection. The cabbie, a wiry guy with a vape cloud halo, eyed Foster’s gown in the rearview but said nothing, just cranked the fare as they rolled deeper into the middle zone - Zone C.

  Zone D was a clear contrast —apartment towers gave way to squat warehouses, their paint peeling like old skin. The cab’s shocks groaned over potholes, streetlights buzzing dim and yellow. Graffiti clawed up the walls, and the air thickened with a sour mix of smog and industrial chemicals. Foster bought himself another ride, this one a rattling sedan with a driver who chain-smoked and spat out the window. The city loomed darker—plenty of boarded-up storefronts, and alleys choked with trash, the Wall’s shadow staining the far horizon. The streetlights here were half-dead, those that still worked casting jagged pools of light over shadowy figures hunched and hiding in the alleyways.

  By Zone E— you were wall-adjacent, the P-District was deep inside the E-zone almost up to the wall - one of the better districts in the zone because of the protection offered by proximity to Starlight College — the cab was now a rustbucket that stuttered it’s way across rough roads, its upholstery torn and stinking of stale beers. The driver, a grizzled woman with a scar bisecting her lip, demanded a double fare upfront, pay to get him there, and then her back to the D-zone. The city here was up against the Wall - a black monolith swallowing the horizon. No holo-ads, just flickering neon signs, no supers flying through the sky, but lots of chromed up gangers and tired looking mutants walking the streets. Foster clutched the check tighter, the paper creasing under his fingers, as the cab lurched to a stop outside a squat, concrete bank—its sign half-lit, reading FIRST P-DISTRICT SAVINGS.

  His apartment could wait.

  The Bank Job

  Maybe you should have done this back in the A district.

  ‘I don’t think that ‘P-district savings’ has branches there, and this is - sadly - my bank.’ Foster’s gaze rolled over the building. ‘But I’ll definitely transfer the wealth once we open up a new account somewhere more upscale.’

  The interior was a time capsule—faded linoleum, flickering fluorescents, the windows made of old glass scratched with years of desperation. The line was short: a tired mom with a fidgeting kid, an old man in a stained coat muttering to himself, and Foster, still in his hoodie and gown, check crumpled in his fist. When it was his turn he slid it under the glass to the teller—a scrawny guy with a patchy mustache and a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

  The teller unfolded the check, squinted at the seven digits, and barked a laugh that echoed off the walls. “Holy shit, kid, you’re really trying this?” His fingers hovered over the counter, then darted to a button beneath it—the silent alarm, pressed with a glee Foster didn’t expect. “This is fake as hell. Wait ‘til the cops see this.”

  Foster’s gut clenched. “It’s real—hospital settlement.”

  “Uh-huh, sure,” the teller sneered, already waving him off. “Stand there ‘til the cops sort you out.”

  Before Foster could argue there was a ripple of pressure from a door opening at extreme speed, then a crack as a woman appeared in the middle of the room. Ricochet—her super name plastered across tabloids—was a walking fortress: six feet of coiled power and six pack abs on display, skin gleaming like polished porcelain under the lights. Her costume was minimal—black tank top, cargo pants, boots—because why bother with armor when bullets pinged off her like rain on tin? Short, platinum-blonde hair spiked wild, and her green eyes flashed irritation as she scanned the room.

  “Alright, where’s the hold-up?” Ricochet’s voice was a surprisingly feminine, her stance wide and ready. She zeroed in on the teller. “You hit the alarm for what—a slow day?”

  The teller stammered, pointing at Foster. “This guy, fake check, big money.” He took a breath, “I thought he was pulling something.”

  Ricochet’s gaze swung to Foster, raking over his hoodie and gown, lingering on the check still clutched in his hand. She snorted. “You’re kidding. Him?” She stepped closer, she had two inches on Foster, but with her boots she was towering over him, and plucked the check from the tellers fingers with a flick of her wrist. Her eyes narrowed, scanning it, then flicked back to the teller. “Looks legit. Inner City seal and it’s watermarked so please tell me you at least ran it through the computer and you’re not wasting my time.”

  Before the teller could sputter a reply, the front door banged open again—this time with a gunman barreling in, he was dressed like a cowboy with a black domino mask, eyes beneath dilated from too many stims, and his pistol waving in the air like a drunk conductor. “Everyone down! Gimme the cash—now!” His voice cracked, nerves bleeding through the bravado.

  Ricochet groaned, rolling her eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s Philly the Kid. Really? You’re done embarrassing all the villains out in the D zone and you’ve decided to bring your act out here? So stupid.” She didn’t flinch as the gunman spun toward her, finger twitching on the trigger. Three shots rang out —bang, bang, bang—and the bullets hit her in the chest, ricocheting wild. One sparked off the ceiling, another shattered a light fixture, and the third—

  A scream tore through the room. The little girl in line, maybe six, crumpled, blood blooming across her pink jacket. The woman with her dropped beside her, shrieking, hands clawing at the wound like she could claw the bullet back out.

  Ricochet’s face rippled with rage, she spun on the gunman, who’d frozen, pistol dangling like he’d forgotten it was there. She grabbed him by the collar, lifted him clean off the floor, and slammed him into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. “You worthless-,” she snarled, then grimaced and dropped him, he was already unconscious, she whirled toward the girl. Her steel-hard face softened for a split second with shock, maybe guilt.

  Foster knelt beside the girl. Up close he could see she was a mutant. Supers always triggered - but mutants were a little more complicated. Some mutants were just born that way, and this girl had tiny webs between her fingers, and slit irises.

  Taking his hoodie off he pressing it against the girl’s chest, blood was soaking through it fast. “Hold on, kid,” he muttered. The mom sobbed, clutching her daughter’s hand, and the room blurred into chaos—the teller yelling, old man cowering.

  Foster looked up to Ricochet, “Do you have a phone that will work out here?”

  She took out her phone but shook her head sadly, “By the time the P-district ambulances get here-” She started to dial.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “You’re fast you could-”

  “I’m able to move that fast because I’m built different - whatever magic bullshit some Supers have that lets them grab people and shoot around the world, I don’t have it - if I grab you and just run you across the room, you’re gonna get an aneurysm. With that bullet in her, the run to the hospital would kill her.”

  Foster grabbed the mothers hands and moved them to holding down the jacket, “Hold this!” He frantically pulled out his wallet from the kangaroo pocket, plucked out the card he’d just received, and then moved like lightning grabbing for ricochet’s phone — one of the fancy models that still held a good signal even this close to the Wall. Surprised she let it go and he punched in Dr. Vex’s direct line, the one she’d slipped him on her card. It rang once, twice, then her voice snapped through, crisp and annoyed. “Who is this?”

  “Bank, P-District Savings—a girl’s shot, it’s bad.” His words tumbled out, sharp and urgent.

  Mara was quiet for only an instant. “Fine. Five minutes. Keep her breathing. You just used one of your favors, when you call in another I’ll consider us to be fully squared.” The line cut dead.

  The minutes stretched long but the whump-whump of rotor blades finally cut through the din. A sleek med-chopper—Inner City tech somehow shielded against the Aether - Foster wondered if it was the same secret tech they embedded into cyber-implants. It was all black curves and red crosses—touched down outside, kicking up dust and trash. Medics in hazard suits spilled out, stretcher in tow, and swarmed the girl. Foster stepped back, hands slick with blood, as they loaded her and the girl's mother up and lifted off, the chopper’s roar fading into the Wall’s shadow.

  Ricochet stared after it, jaw tight, then turned to Foster. Her green eyes narrowed. “A chopper? Out here?” she said, voice low, laced with suspicion. “Nobody has that kind of pull in the P-District.” She crossed her arms, muscles flexing under her tank top, mentally filing him away: Rich kid? Could be trouble.

  Foster wiped his hands on his gown, shrugging stiffly. “I was owed a favor, If I could trade a favor owed for a child’s life and I didn't, what kind of person would I be….” His voice was flat, but his pulse hammered—after years of laying low he was suddenly drawing way too much attention, far too fast, and he was caring about the fates of people that he didn’t even know. That wasn’t like him. Was it?

  ‘Hedy, why in the hell is all this weirdness happening… and why… why do I care?’’

  I still need more data, but I believe that in the absence of most of your memories and with the extreme trauma you’ve experienced in this life… it has redefined some of your core values.

  The teller, pale and sweating, scurried over, thrusting a black card and a scribbled note into Foster’s hands. “S-sorry, sir,” he stammered. “Here’s your new high limit debit card and a priority number, direct line to the branch manager! Call anytime—anytime!” His mustache twitched like it might jump off his face.

  Ricochet snorted, glancing at the gunman, then back at Foster. With a last lingering look, she hauled the gunman over her shoulder like a sack of flour and stalked out, leaving the bank in stunned silence.

  Foster pocketed the card and note. It was finally time to go home.

  ***

  It wasn’t that long of a walk between the bank and his apartment. Foster trudged up the chipped concrete steps to the entrance of his efficiency, the new black debit card and crumpled note from the bank shoved into his wallet which was now clenched in his blood covered hands - the sight of which were possibly the reason no one accosted him along the way. The P-District’s stale air clung to him—smog, sweat, and the faint copper tang of the poor girl’s blood.

  The check was deposited, seven digits now a digital ghost in some server… after living almost paycheck to paycheck it didn’t quite feel real yet, nothing from the last few days did..

  The outer lock to the hallway had been busted open long ago… he pushed it open and made his way to the nondescript grey door - marked 107.

  The key he kept in his wallet jittered in his shaking hands, finally it scraped in the lock and he let himself inside, feeling the tension drain from his body.

  He shoved the door shut, peeling off the blood-streaked silvery gown, and dropped his wallet onto the floor - the last he’d seen his borrowed hoodie some med-tech was tossing it into a bag. He washed his hands as well as he could with the dish soap in his tiny sink then took a shower and scrubbed even harder, he would have stayed longer but the lukewarm water turned cold too quickly, finally finished he pulled on a T-shirt and some jeans.

  The mini-fridge door creaked as he yanked it open—discount soda and a wilted slice of pizza staring back. He grabbed the pizza - days old and cold - and flopped onto the mattress, chewing mechanically without bothering to heat it.

  ‘What the hell am I doing Hedy… I’m reduced to this.This is just bullshit.’

  You needed a host = nether-shards aren’t designed to function without them.

  “I know… but how the hell is this existence so… unlucky.”

  You got sucked into a dimensional singularity that kicked you out of our universe and you’re still complaining about someone else's luck?

  “Fair… maybe I brought some of the bad luck with me.”

  The memories cycled—Wolfen’s attack, Pete’s skull cracking, Sofia’s bloodied nose, now the girl in the bank adde to it. He started thinking back to his first life - the bits and pieces he could recall - then brutally shut that down. His entire universe was out of reach for the time being - this was his world now.

  He started thinking about triggering. He’d be a super soon, supposedly, whether he liked it or not. Of course he would like to have vast god-like powers - again- it was just the more likely scenario that had him bummed.

  ‘F-rank, probably. A Super-fucking-lame super.’

  A spark flared in his chest—maybe anger, maybe hope—then dulled as he swallowed the last bite. Cold grease slicked his fingers, and he stared up at the ceiling.

  Even bad cold pizza is kinda good. That is one perk of meatlife. Eating… it’s a disgusting process… but… so enjoyable.

  A sharp knock rattled the door.

  Foster froze, pizza grease still on his lips. The P-District didn’t usually do visitors—not friendly ones.. Another knock, softer but insistent. He rolled off the mattress, creeping to the door, peering through the peephole’s scratched lens.

  Sofia.

  Her wavy black hair spilled loose, no Sloppo’s beret to tame it, framing a face smudged with exhaustion and something else—relief? Her dark eyes flicked nervously down the hall, her small frame dwarfed by a too-big jacket that swallowed her tacky uniform. She hugged herself, shifting foot to foot. Foster’s breath hitched. She was O.k.

  He swung the door open. “Sofia?”

  She didn’t wait. She rushed in, a blur of motion, and threw her arms around him, crashing into his chest with a force that knocked him back a step. Her grip was tight, desperate, her face buried against his shirt. “You’re okay,” she mumbled, voice muffled, cracking with something raw. “I thought—I saw you fall, and then the PRU hauled you off, and Pete—” She choked, squeezing harder.

  Foster stiffened, arms hovering awkwardly before settling around her. Her warmth seeped through his thin tee, her hair tickling his chin. “I’m fine,” he said, voice rougher than he meant. “You’re the one who got swatted like a fly. You shouldn’t be here—you should be … I don’t know resting?”

  She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes glassy but fierce. “Nobody would tell me anything—just that you were gone, and Wolfen was…” She swallowed, shaking her head. “You killed him Foster. How?”

  Her words hung and he opened his mouth, but nothing came. What am I? “I got kindof lucky in that fight, I had a trick up my sleeve.”

  “Lucky?” She snorted, a wet, incredulous sound, then hugged him again, tighter. “You’re insane.”

  And then it hit him—a jolt, sharp and electric, spiking through his skull. Deja-vu. Her arms around him, her breath against his neck—it felt like a memory but he couldn’t quite place. His vision blurred, the room tilting. Hedy? What’s this?

  Some kind of neural memory echo, Hedy’s voice purred. I don’t see any matches though, but you know how faulty organic neurology can be.

  Foster blinked, steadying himself against Sofia’s grip. Her dark eyes searched his, worry creasing her brow. “You okay? You went all weird for a sec.”

  “Yeah,” he lied, forcing a tight smile. “Just… tired, maybe a little surprised at the hug.” He slowly pulled away and guided her to the mattress, easing her down. “Sorry this is all I have. This place was never really meant for company.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered and sank into the foam, wincing as she shifted.. “Pete’s… gone. Val’s a mess. Russell and Leon are pretending it’s fine, but… it’s not. And you—” She looked up, eyes piercing. “Are you ok?”

  He sat beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. The deja-vu lingering but fading. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted, staring at his hands—still faintly trembling slightly. “But I’m figuring it out… how the hell do you know where I live?”

  “I’m not stalking you! I used your password on the store computer and looked up your address. I’ve been checking here every day. Please… please don’t ask me to go yet.”

  Foster exhaled, rubbing his face. “Fine. Stay. But if I start glowing or shooting sparks, you run, got it?”

  Sofia actually looked a little concerned, “Is that something I should worry about?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  Sofia nudged over on the bed till she was right next to him, then wrapped him in a hug again, “I’m just so glad you’re o.k.”

  Foster let her hold him… he was only somewhat surprised when he realized she’d fallen asleep.

  ‘Hedy is this just friendship or have I been blind… you know I wasn’t even good at judging this kind of thing even when my mind was at a hundred percent.’

  Yes, I am aware. You know my policy on advising you about romantic matters. You’ll just end up blaming me when you screw it up.

  ‘Shit.’ He slowly laid her down onto the bed, realizing he would have to struggle his way to an answer on his own. ‘For now, let’s just let her sleep.’